


Three's Family

by PenPistola



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2260683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenPistola/pseuds/PenPistola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a while of being together, Eames reveals to Arthur that he has a son he never told Arthur about. When circumstances arise that necessitate them moving in and raising the boy, they all slowly adjust to their new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three's Family

**Author's Note:**

> This may be the sappiest, fluffiest schmoop I have ever written. I think I got cavities.
> 
> For [this](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/3434.html?thread=4050794#t4050794) prompt on the kink meme.
> 
> You can also read this story [here](http://pen-pistola.livejournal.com/6947.html#cutid1), on my LJ.

_'Arthur, there's something I haven't told you. I got a phone call a while back, and... well, circumstances... I swear I meant to bring it up, but the time never seemed right. Just don't... don't freak out, yeah?'_  
  
...  
  
 _'Oh my God. Oh God. Eames, you can't just... Oh God, oh shit,_ fuck! _A son?! How could you... how could you keep something like this from me? Five fucking years, Eames. Five years and you never once...'_  
  
...  
  
 _'Arthur, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I love you, you know that, right? I fucked up, repeatedly, for years, and that's my fault. But I can't turn my back on him when he needs me.'_  
  
...  
  
 _'I just don't know if I can do this, Eames. I don't know. He's fifteen years old, and that's... I know nothing about him._ You _know almost nothing about him. So how the hell are both you_ and _I supposed to deal with this? And why should he trust us? What if he doesn't..._ '  
  
...  
  
 _'Eames... Charlie... I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking about your part in all this, and that was selfish. It's just... I was completely blown away. You understand? But... I can try, at least. I can do that for you. And him."_  
  
...

Dinner was never a quiet affair in the Eames household. Something burned, seconds were fought over, inappropriate jokes were made at the table, and on at least one occasion the whole thing had ended in a food fight. All in all, it amazed Arthur how quickly he'd been able to adjust to the disorderly lifestyle Charlie Eames surrounded himself with these days. He'd followed Eames back to England, and by now, nearly a year after the Fischer job, chaos had become his life. He'd had high hopes for tonight, though—he'd spent hours working on a soufflé—until the phone on the wall started ringing.  
  
"I'll get it!" Sam shouted, scrambling out of his chair, but his father's arms were longer. Eames simply leaned back in his chair and snatched the phone off the wall while the teenager looked at him with a murderous hatred in his green eyes.  
  
"Ye-e-e-s?" said Eames into the receiver, drawing out the syllable and grinning. Arthur frowned over a bite of his dinner roll; it sounded like a girl on the other end, maybe one of Sam's classmates. Sam was tense as Eames raised an eyebrow at something the girl was saying. "Studying for maths, eh, Sara? And you want him to come over," he repeated. "You do realize, love, that it's after seven in the evening?" Sam fumed silently as his father ruined any chances he'd had of visiting the girl. Arthur chewed on his roll thoughtfully. Sam was almost sixteen now, and a good kid, if a little entrenched in this 'teen angst' business. He was polite, did well in school, stayed out of trouble... and at sixteen, Arthur thought ruefully, both he and Sam's father had been doing far worse than visiting a girl's for a makeout session.  
  
So finally, sympathy outweighing his concern that Eames would be mad at him, he reached across the table and yanked the phone from his lover's grip. "He'd love to come," Arthur said into the receiver quickly, before Eames could wrestle the phone away again. "You're right, he  _could_  have done better on that last test. Seven forty-five? Great, Sara, he'll see you then."  
  
Arthur pressed the 'off' button and calmly handed the phone back to a sputtering Eames, lips twisted into a smirk. 'What?" he shrugged. "It's true, he could have done better. Ninety seven out of a hundred still leaves room for improvement." Then he turned and addressed Sam, who was busy trying not to look too jubilant, with a grin. "Study hard, Sam." Sam flashed Arthur a grin, jogged to his room for his backpack, then practically skipped out the door toward the tube station. Arthur casually started eating again, ignoring Eames' eyes boring holes into him with incensed betrayal.  
  
"I swear to God, Arthur," he said after a moment, "if that hussy deflowers my perfect baby angel, I will murder her, and then you."  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes. "And what were you doing at that age, I ask? Oh yes,  _fathering him_ ," he motioned after Sam with his fork. Eames continued to glare at Arthur, but really, he didn't have anything to come back with that wouldn't make him sound like a complete hypocrite. "It's appropriate to be concerned, but there are limits to these things. Besides," Arthur chewed, "it's good for him to have friends." He chose to ignore Eames' grumblings of 'not your son' and finished his meal before picking up both his and Sam's plates and bringing them to the sink. Eames was still watching him as he dumped the scraps into the disposal and began scrubbing the plates with one of the orange sponges Eames insisted on buying. Really, one day Arthur would have to take a turn grocery shopping.  
  
"Arthur," Eames said finally, scooting his chair back from the table and coming to stand behind his lover. Arthur said nothing, just took Eames' plate from him and started scrubbing that, as well. "Arthuuuuuur," said Eames again, and it came out like a whine. Arthur smirked, but he kept his back to Eames so that the other man didn't see it. Eames watched him scrub the last bit of food off, then buff the plate meticulously. "Arthur!" This time it was definitely a whine. He snagged Arthur by the waist, who dropped the plate into the sinkful of water, and spun him around.  
  
"Yes?" said Arthur, hardly an inch from Eames' nose. He forced himself to stay composed as Eames gazed at him with big grey puppy dog eyes.  
  
"You had a point," Eames admitted, shoulders slumped. "Sam is... well, he's my baby, but I do need to give him a little slack on the leash from time to time. It's... it's hard not to crowd him now, considering how little he saw of me before now. But I trust him, and I know he'll be fine." He wrapped his arms around Arthur, who returned the soft embrace. "So yes, you were right."  
  
"Of course I was," Arthur grinned into Eames' shoulder.  
  
"Make up sex?"  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
  
...  
  
  
Arthur was reading the newspaper when Sam strolled through the door, slinging the backpack off his shoulder and onto the floor. Arthur didn't have the heart to tell him to put it in his room, and instead he patted the spot on the couch next to him. "How was school?" he asked as Sam propped his feet on the coffee table.  
  
"Not bad," Sam sighed contentedly, sinking into the plush couch cushion. "I scored perfect on my maths test." Arthur watched from the corner of his eye as Sam's mouth quirked into a lopsided smile. Arthur thought he knew where it came from.  
  
"And... how did the studying last night go?" Sam's smile faltered, his ears flushing red at the tips, and Arthur gave him a knowing wink.  
  
"Th-that was good too," Sam stammered. After a moment he started to relax again, and the smile came back. "It was really good, actually. No thanks to my dad."  
  
Arthur frowned a bit, uncrossing his legs and setting the paper down. "Sam," he started, and seeing where this was going, Sam began to fidget. "You know how your dad is. How much he regrets being away for so long, leaving you with your mother and all." Sam's fidgeting stilled at the mention of the woman who had told him once that no, she had never loved him or wanted him. "He's just trying to make up for it now. By being here for you now."  
  
Sam's eyes glazed over a bit as he stared at his hands. "I know. I don't know that I can forgive him yet for the way my life has been up until now, but I'm trying. And I do appreciate that he's trying too. It does feel like he's here for me this time, like he's actually my dad and not some stranger I see occasionally who gives me money. It just... well, it's still taking me some time to get used to," he said with a small smile.  
  
"Don't I know it," Arthur smiled back a little wistfully. "Just be patient with him, and I'll try and work on him in the meantime."  
  
"Arthur?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Thanks."  
  
They sat on the couch in amiable silence for an hour or so until Sam dozed off, and Arthur felt ashamed that he'd ever freaked out about Sam's existence. It all came back to him in hazy snippets of memory. Eleven months ago, standing at the airport in LA, Eames whispering, "Come back with me." Arthur agreeing, immediately, following him halfway across the world again to a house on the outskirts of London that Arthur never knew he had. A desperate, panicked Eames stopping him outside the door, telling him there was something he should have explained earlier. Arthur, despite his sense of foreboding, managing to be completely shocked at the revelation. Running off to a pub, drinking away the confusion that somehow, all this time, Eames had had a son. A  _teenaged_  son. A son who had grown up with a mother who'd never wanted him, who had only raised him out of necessity. Who was leaving him to his mostly absent father now that he had nearly unlimited money, trading her child for her freedom. Arthur finally coming back, willing to at least give it a shot for the man he'd fallen in love with.  
  
He'd looked at Sam, just like he was doing now, and something in his heart had grown warm and fuzzy. It was a strange feeling, being soft about something like this. But he had Eames, who he'd wanted for years, and now he had something else that he'd never known he'd wanted. A couple of things, actually, Arthur thought as Eames tromped up to the front door.  
  
"Honey, I'm home!' he called as he strode inside, setting down his briefcase, and both Arthur and Sam smacked their palms to their forehead.  
  
"Hey Dad," Sam yawned.  
  
"Have you taken Prou-Prou on his walk?" Eames grinned, watching Arthur carefully. Arthur tensed on the sofa.  
  
"Oh no. Sam, don't listen to your father. His ability to command has been compromised, and I'm calling rank." Arthur kicked off his shoes and drew his legs up on the couch, while Sam watched him unsympathetically. "Sam," Arthur tried more seriously, "you  _know_  what will happen if you let that animal in."  
  
"Exactly," Eames cackled, and he bent down to snuffle wildly at Arthur's ear in an imitation of a dog. Arthur shoved Eames off him, trying to wipe the spit off the back of his neck and flatten his hair back. Eames just grinned. "You know you like it."  
  
"I hate you," Arthur groaned. "So much. Sam, you're alright, but your father? No."  
  
Sam smirked, then climbed off the sofa to his feet. "You know what, though? Prou really does need a walk." He walked over to the french doors that led to the back yard, grinning. "Oh, Proooooooust!" he called through the glass, and within seconds an astoundingly enormous St. Bernard was slobbering and licking the other side of the windowpanes.

  
"Please no," Arthur tried, but Sam didn't stop. "Samuel Wallace Eames!"  
  
The teenager jogged the door handle and Proust's weight against it was enough to send it flying open. The dog bounded into the living room, and to Arthur's abject horror, made a beeline directly for him.  
  
"I take it back!" Arthur called out just before impact. "I hate you bo-OOF!" Proust made a flying leap at the couch and slammed bodily into Arthur's chest. He scrambled into Arthur's lap, no mean feat considering his size, and immediately began covering his face in sloppy kisses. "Plah!" Arthur screwed his eyes shut and shoved uselessly at the dog. "I'm serious, I hate both of you."  
  
After thirty seconds or so, Sam finally had pity and pulled the huge puppy off by the collar. He was only a year old and already he was heavy enough to flatten poor Arthur into the couch. Of all the dogs Eames had tried to ply his son with after all those years of absence, they had to choose  _this_  one to keep. But as much of a nuisance as the dog was, Arthur didn't have it in him to send Proust away. Plus, they'd run out of neighbours to foist puppies on. Arthur would never admit that he secretly liked Proust. But he did. He did not, however, like the hair that the dog left all over his gorgeous, previously unwrinkled grey suit.  
  
"Out," Arthur sighed exasperatedly at Sam, who was now affixing the leash to Proust's collar. "And don't come back until he's run out of energy."  
  
"Aye-aye," Sam grinned.  
  
Arthur flopped back on the couch once Sam had exited the front door for the neighbourhood, limbs going slack. Eames slid down beside him, massaging at Arthur's shoulders, but Arthur wasn't done complaining yet. "I don't see why we need a dog," he said, only half seriously, "or why you thought it would stop Sam being mad at you. Or why you had to name it  _Proust_."  
  
They had this argument nearly every day, and Eames chuckled into Arthur's hair. "I knew you couldn't stand it if I named him after your favourite writer. So it was all the better to annoy you with, love. Besides, it worked, didn't it? Sam and I are talking." His voice grew softer. "We're more like a normal family... right?"  
  
Arthur sighed, turning around in Eames' arms to face the larger man. "Sam loves Proust, yes. But he loves you too. Maybe he won't ever be able to forgive you for being gone, but he's moving on anyway. We've all got to live in the here and now." He threaded his fingers into Eames' hair, rubbing at the base of his skull, and the larger man purred. "I know it's different, and you're not quite sure how to deal with it. None of us do. This is new for all of us; living together, staying put in one place, working 'normal' jobs..."  
  
"You're right, as usual," Eames sighed. Then, a little uncertainly, "Am I doing a good job as a father? You had a normal one. D'you think-"  
  
"Eames, you are the best thing to happen in that boy's life. Maybe you came in a little late, but..." He moved in to kiss Eames' frown away. "You love him, and he loves you. And I love him too. Everything is going to be okay."  
  
"I love  _you_ , whispered Eames, and kissed him back.  
  
  
...  
  
  
"It's just a dance," Sam complained as he flopped down on one of the kitchen chairs. He pushed aside a pile of the bills Arthur had been working on paying and put his head down on his arms. "I don't see why it's even a big deal."  
  
"It's a private dance at a private house. I don't know her parents, I've never met her, and who knows what might go on. There might be sex, drugs, booze..."  
  
"Dad," Sam interrupted his father, "you're being unreasonable! Laura told me herself; her mum's gonna be there the whole time. We're not going to be unsupervised. I can't just not go!"  
  
"I said no," Eames growled, then, "Shit!" He'd managed to slice his finger along with the onions he was chopping for dinner, and he stuck the injured digit in his mouth and sucked on it. His face stayed stony, and so Sam turned to Arthur, who had been trying to stay out of the whole thing. Arthur tried to look distracted moving the bills off the table, but Sam wasn't quite that easy to dissuade.  
  
"Arthur?" Sam wheedled. "Can you  _please_  talk some sense into his thick head?" Eames turned to stare at Arthur, his eyes hard.  
  
"I..." Arthur started. He hated being here, caught between Sam and his lover. Each of them had points, so maybe a compromise would work. "What if we call and talk to Laura's mother?" he tried. "We can ask her about the details of the party and get her phone number in case of an emergency. And of course you would have to keep your phone on you too, Sam."  
  
Eames bit at his lip, his brow furrowed. "Maybe," he said simply, and went back to chopping onions. Sam still looked mutinous about it, but he said nothing else either.  
  
The silence was awkward until Eames started handing out plates and setting the taco ingredients out on the table. For a while there was nothing but the sound of crunching taco shells, nobody making eye contact, until finally Eames cleared his throat and spoke up again. "If you go, you have to promise to text us when you get there and when you leave. And let Arthur take you out to buy clothes; I'd be terrible at it."  
  
Sam looked up from his taco slowly. His eyes were questioning at first, but when he met his father's gaze and saw that he was smiling, they crinkled in delight as he smiled back. "Thanks, Dad."  
  
  
...  
  
  
A week later, Arthur guided a reluctant Sam by the shoulders from the hallway into the living room. "No,  _down_ , Proust!" he shouted before the dog could get any ideas about ruining their clothing with dog hair. Proust ambled obediently over to his doggy bed and flopped down to watch them with sad brown eyes.  
  
"Can I look now?" murmured Eames from behind his hands. He hadn't even peeked between his fingers, and this waiting thing was taking too long.  
  
"Go ahead," Arthur smiled. "And then bow down to my greatness." Eames removed his hands and opened his eyes, blinking in the light. Sam had his head bowed, the tips of his ears gone absolutely scarlet to match the nicely fitted red button-down he wore. He had a snappy black tie and waistcoat and trim cut black slacks, and Eames didn't think GQ would have been able to dress the boy any better.  
  
He tried to say as much, but all that came out was, "Goddamn," and a few seconds later, "Nicely done."  
  
"Well, we're glad you approve," Arthur grinned. "And with a get-up like this, not to mention the good looks his father managed to pass in his direction-" both Sam and Eames blushed "-he's sure to be at the centre of attention."  
  
"Long as it's good attention," Eames said, throat working. He pushed himself off the couch and over to Sam in one motion, circling the embarrassed boy. When he'd walked all the way around him, he pulled the teenager into a squirmy hug. "This is both the best and worst moment in my life," he sighed. "On the one hand, my boy is growing up. On the other hand, my boy is growing up, and  _I'm_  growing old."  
  
"Dad," Sam whined, head still crushed into his father's chest, "you're hardly over thirty. You're the youngest parent of anyone in my year, except for Sheldon's mum, and she's just a floozy."  
  
Eames stifled a laugh and let his son go, smoothing his hair back down with one hand. "Nice to know you don't think of  _me_  that way," he grinned.  
  
"I might, but Arthur is standing roughly two feet behind me, and I've seen him when he's mad."  
  
"Touché," Arthur whistled. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a handful of items, which he handed to Sam. "And now, so your father doesn't drive me insane, here's your tube permission slip, fifty pounds, charged cell phone and an ID card with all your information, in case you—God forbid—get lost." He ignored Eames' startled look and watched as Sam slipped the items in his pocket. "Excellent."  
  
"And what time will you be back?" asked Eames, like they'd rehearsed this, which they had.  
  
"Before two," Sam sighed. "I know. Now can you guys please cut the cord and let me go?"  
  
"One more hug," Eames insisted, and Sam rolled his eyes as his father engulfed him in what was not entirely feigned urgency. Eames motioned to Arthur, and he strode over warily only to be snagged by Sam's free arm into the hug.  
  
They stood there for nearly thirty seconds. It was nice, Arthur thought. Never in a million years would he have counted on being this  _domestic_ , but here he was. He had the man he loved and the son who he'd never known he'd wanted, and he loved Sam, and Sam loved him. They were happy. It was a strange feeling, but Arthur had decided some time ago that strange was never necessarily bad. You just had to give it a chance.  
  
"I'm going to be late," Sam finally said, his words muffled into Arthur's waistcoat. They extricated themselves from each other, and Sam took a moment to put his hair back into place yet again. He let out a sigh and managed a small smile in Eames and Arthur's direction. "Text you when I get there."  
  
"You'd better," Eames said sternly, but nobody was fooled. "Have a good time."  
  
"I will. Bye, Arthur. Bye, Dad."  
  
  
...  
  
  
Sam had been out the door maybe three minutes before Arthur let out a deep sigh and ground the heel of his palm into his forehead. "Do we really have to do this?"  
  
Eames was double checking the directions he'd downloaded earlier while shrugging on his jacket. "Damned straight, Arthur. I know what teenagers are like; I  _was_  one. And that's why I can't trust them."  
  
Arthur shifted his weight and tilted his head back, eyes narrow slits. "You told me not one week ago that you trusted him. And you know what will happen if he finds out.  _He_  won't trust  _you_  again, not ever. And you're dragging me into this, too."  
  
"I never said I didn't trust him. I don't trust the other teenagers; there's a difference."  
  
Arthur still looked skeptical, but he offered no further arguments and followed Eames out the door to Eames' black Aston Martin Vantage. They rode in silence for a while, Arthur staring out the window as the comfortable homes of lower Harrow got larger and more ostentatious as they climbed the hill. Finally Arthur could see a large, well-lit estate of a house in the distance, and Eames parallel parked a few houses down to watch the action from afar. Arthur sighed again and put his feet on the dash, to Eames' great annoyance, resigned to a long period of fruitless waiting for nothing. A couple of cars came and went, dropped off or picked up kids, nothing irregular. Nothing at all.  
  
Five minutes later, Eames got the text that Sam had arrived, and he relaxed minutely. Arthur had hoped this would be a good excuse to leave, but he had no such luck. "I'm just going to close my eyes," he murmured, but Eames said nothing for a while, still staring silently at the house. Arthur was about to fall asleep when Eames broke the silence again.  
  
"Art?"  
  
"Mm?" Arthur murmured, stretching in his seat.  
  
"My life is... well, it's complicated. Do you ever regret coming back with me? Or think twice about loving me at all?"  
  
Eames sounded alarmingly serious, so Arthur gave him a small smile. "Never."  
  
  
...  
  
  
Sam sat down hard on the bed as two girls giggled and one of his male classmates snickered behind his hand. "Nice, little Sammy. We didn't think you had it in you. Thought you were a faggot, just like your dad, but we're impressed."  
  
Sam pinned him with a glare, though his face was so white and drawn that it had little effect. "Shut up." His insides tied in knots as the stares of the girls sitting on the floor took on a hostile bent—or was that the light? His fingers were tingling.  
  
"Do another," said the boy, holding out a white pill.  
  
Sam gulped, staring at the pill in the other boy's hand. The party going on outside this bedroom off the main hall was reduced to a dull roar, thick wooden door muting the sounds.  
  
"Come on, Sam," one of the girls piped up from between her laughter. "No one can hear you and no one will know. Do it now, before my mum gets back."  
  
"Clever idea, that, sending her off for ginger beer," tittered the other.  
  
"Yeah, Sam," said the boy, waggling his fingers. "Nobody will know. And I've got ten quid for you if you take it. I've got to test it out on somebody, right?" His smile grew hard around the edges. "Take it and you get the tenner. But if you don't... well. Shall we just say that my dad has got quite a bit of dirt on yours? Something to do with his previous... employers. You wouldn't want them to take you away, would you?"  
  
Sam screwed his eyes shut, willing himself not to throw up. His heart pounded in his throat as he reached out blindly and felt for the pill. Rob's dad was a powerful, wealthy guy. Who was to say that he couldn't get his father arrested over his extraction career? What choice did Sam have? His fingers closed around the pill and he brought it to his mouth, the saliva forming in response to his nausea more than enough to wash it down. He gulped, swallowed... it was done.  
  
Rob crowed, laughter turned raucous. "He did it! He actually fucking did it!" He shot Sam a wink, throwing the bedroom door open and ushering the two girls out. They left Sam alone in the room, sitting by himself in the middle of the bed with a stupid ten-pound note and wishing he could die. His vision was starting to swirl—he'd had no idea what was in the pills. But he was getting very dizzy very quickly, and his fingers felt like they'd fallen asleep. Sam's insides clenched and his fingers shook as he reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He didn't know what to do. This was stupid, all of it, and now he could be poisoned or dying. He fumbled with the phone, haltingly dialing out the number he should have called in the first place.  
  
  
...  
  
  
Eames looked up as a sudden buzzing filled the interior of the car. Arthur jolted comically, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He blinked and let his eyes adjust before reading the number on the caller ID. Eames watched him anxiously, and Arthur breathed, "It's Sam." He flipped the phone open and answered in a scratchy drawl, "Hello?"  
  
Sam's breathing was hitched and irregular on the other end of the line. " _Arthur,_ " he gasped. " _I need your help. I... I messed up. I did something really bad, but you have to promise. Promise you won't tell Dad? Please don't tell him what I did, he'd kill me._ "  
  
Arthur went rigid in his seat, but he put a hand out to stop Eames leaning over and listening in. "Sam," he said calmly, trying to pour into it as much reassurance as he could, "what's wrong?"  
  
Eames looked on, anxiety chewing a hole in his gut, as Arthur's eyes widened and his body grew even tenser, like a bowstring pulled to the snapping point.   
  
"You what?" Arthur's free hand went straight for the shoulder holster that wasn't there. Eames was already reaching for the glove compartment, where he'd hidden a small pistol.  
  
" _I'm so, so sorry, Arthur._ " Sam's voice sounded small, faint. " _He threatened you guys, and I didn't know what to do. I just... gave in. I fucked up. I'll make it up to you, I swear. I'll be grounded for a month, a year, anything. Just please help me out?_ "  
  
Arthur sighed through his nose as Eames loaded the pistol. "Hang tight, Sam. We're not angry with you."  
  
" _We_?"  
  
There was a distinct pause in the conversation, during which Arthur calmly wrenched the pistol from his boyfriend and tossed it back in the glove box. Then, "We'll be there in 30 seconds."  
  
A crackly " _...What_?" But Arthur flipped the phone shut and stalked out after Eames toward the brightly lit house.  
  
"We're not angry?" Eames growled, fists clenching and unclenching like they were searching for some kind of weapon and never finding it. "Speak for yourself."  
  
"It isn't his fault." Arthur clapped a hand down on Eames' shoulder and the other man finally slowed and matched his pace to Arthur's. He continued to scowl, however. "Peer pressure happens to everyone," Arthur tried explaining. "And this other boy threatened him. It's not like he  _wanted_  to take strange pills."  
  
Eames' jaw worked. "He still should have had more sense than to give in, whatever the threat was. But it isn't his face that I want to pulverize."  
  
"I would argue with you about the legality of punching children in the face, but you know, I can't really bring myself to disagree."  
  
Eames stalked up to the front door of the estate and gave the brass knocker three hard raps. A pale-looking teenage girl, the one Sam had gone to study with, pulled it open immediately. "I'm not sure what's going on," she gushed as she ushered them in toward a sheet-white Sam sat in one of the foyer chairs. "I just want to make sure he's oka-"  
  
"Thank you, Sara," Arthur said shortly, maneuvering past the girl and over to Sam. Sam was watching Arthur and his father fearfully, and he flinched when Eames walked right past him and into the main party in the living room. Arthur turned his head back to face him, examining Sam's blown pupils. "How do you feel, Sam?" he asked, half because he had no idea what kind of pill Sam had taken, and half because he wanted to distract him from the slaughter about to go down in the living room.  
  
"Just... lightheaded and tingly," Sam shuddered. To his credit his eyes were completely dry, though Arthur wondered whether it was bravery or plain shock keeping him from giving in. "Dad," Sam whispered softly. "He's going to kill me, isn't he? He trusted me and I disappointed him. Will he... will he even want me anymore?"  
  
"Sam." The boy blinked up at Arthur. "He's your father. He wants you as his son, and no matter what happens, he loves you." Sam shook as Arthur pulled the boy into his arms for a tight hug. "I'll be right back," Arthur assured him, then pushed himself to his feet. "Just going to make sure your father stays in line." Sam offered him a watery smile, and convinced the boy would be okay on his own for a minute or two, Arthur followed Eames warily.

  
...

  
"You," Eames growled, low in his throat. He had Rob backed up to the wall in the bedroom where the boy had forced his pill, some kind of frankenstein Coricidin mishmash, on Sam. Rob was trembling a little, his eyes burning defiantly, but he didn't offer any resistance. Eames forced himself to remember Arthur's words so he wouldn't punch the boy in the face. Instead, he bit out, "If I ever hear of you threatening my son again, or using him as a guinea pig, or even so much as  _looking_  at him the wrong way, I will take this fist," he let it hang in the air just inches from Rob's face, "and I will rip your tongue out through your arse. Got it?"  
  
"B-but my father–"  
  
"Doesn't scare me," Eames cut in. "You have friends in high places? I have friends in higher. Try running the name 'Ichiro Saito' past him. Proclus Industries. He may have heard of it."  
  
Rob gulped. He didn't offer any recognition toward the name, but apparently he believed Eames' threat anyway. He gave a quick, jerky nod, then ducked out from under Eames' arm and ran wailing back to the party.

  
...

  
Arthur was waiting for Eames when he emerged from the bedroom, eyebrow raised in advance. "How'd it go?"  
  
"Oh, quite well," Eames grinned cheerily. "I think we've managed to come to an understanding. How is Sam?"  
  
"He seems alright. He's a little loopy but Sara got him some cookies and punch and is sitting with him right now. Good girl."  
  
Lines of Eames' body that Arthur hadn't even realized were tensed began to relax. "Good... good."  
  
He and Arthur were shoulder to shoulder when they emerged from the hallway into the living room. The knot of teens who had formed around Rob all turned as one to stare. Punch cups were dropped to spill all over the marble floor, and even the music stopped. Arthur paused in the doorway, a bit like a deer in the headlights. Sure, Rob was pissing himself, but were those girls looking at him and Eames with  _interest_?  
  
"S-sorry about the party," Arthur stammered, "we'll be off now." The teenagers continued to stare as he guided an equally bemused Eames over to the foyer where Sam was waiting. "Er... carry on?" And just like that, the vacuum they'd created filled almost immediately with excited girl chatter and a couple of wolf whistles. Arthur shrugged; it was possible he'd never get women. But he had more important things to think about—Sam was waiting for them.  
  
Sara ducked off and Sam slowly got to his feet as Eames moved to stand in front of him. "Dad... I..."  
  
But any further response was cut off as his father enveloped him in a hug. "It's okay, Sam." Eames' voice was rough around the edges. "I may be the shittiest father in existence, but you're a good son. You did what you thought was right. You're my boy, and a mistake like this isn't enough to change that. Or enough to shake my trust in you." His arms loosened a bit as Sam turned around to wipe at his eyes. Eames' brow creased in guilt, his frame slumped. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "For everything. For not being there for you when you needed me, and being such a stubborn arse when I was. And, well, I'm sorry I followed you to the party."  
  
Sam turned back again, and his eyes were too bright as he smiled. "You know," he chuckled dryly, "I really shouldn't forgive you, considering I'll never ever live this down with my mates. But I... I appreciate that you were  _here_  for me this time at least. It's a start, right?"

Eames' eyes crinkled at the corners. "I guess."

 

...

 

"Oh my God," Sam near yelled, wide-eyed as he strode through the door on Monday afternoon. "Arthur!"

  
Arthur put down the glass of lemonade he was mixing and shot to Sam's side in an instant. "What is it?" he asked, concerned, as Sam slumped against the wall. "Don't tell me, we've ruined your social life forever?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Then?"  
  
"It's worse. I've got at least three girls who said they wanted to come over and study after class today, and I had to tell them all no."  
  
Eames strolled into the room just then, brow cocked. "Did I just hear you say you refused several young ladies' company for the afternoon?" He tilted his head. "Is there something you maybe want to tell us?"  
  
"No!" Sam blushed. "It's not like that! It's just..." He looked down, ears reddening. "They all, er, asked about  _you_ guys."  
  
A slow, self-satisfied grin of realization spread across Eames' face and he pulled a bewildered Arthur to him by the arm. "Yep," he grinned, tugging at Arthur's tie. 'We've still got it."  
  
Arthur blinked. "Oh.  _Ohhhh_. Well then, no, don't invite them over."  
  
"I hate you guys so much."  
  
"We love you too."


End file.
